From street tabloids to the first newspaper of the Republic of China

September 8th.

The wind is strong today, but even stronger are the shouts of newspaper vendors on the street.

"Report! Report! Look at the rickshaw drivers! A report based on interviews with fifty people!"

"News report! News report! Petition at the Senate! Yuan Shikai politely declines the imperial system!"

"The Times! The Times! Support Liang Yinbing! Oppose changing the form of government!"

Shouts rose and fell, as if they were competing to see who could shout the loudest.

A passerby caught a glimpse of the large headline on the front page of the *Shen Bao* newspaper at a newsstand, and his legs involuntarily led him there, wondering as he walked—

Why is the Shen Bao newspaper starting to conduct these kinds of public opinion surveys?

You have to try both the high and low salty flavors!

Let's see if it surpasses the "Strange News" or is just a clumsy imitation by Shi Liangcai!

People gathered around to buy newspapers; some reached for the "Shen Bao" newspaper, some for the "Shi Bao" newspaper, and some said they would like one of each.

Gradually, more and more people gathered on the street: small merchants dressed in silk, teachers and students going to school, young women going out to buy groceries, and urban office workers going to work. Seeing the bustling scene at the newsstand, they all came over to take a look.

The day laborers and rickshaw pullers on the street glanced at him from time to time from a short distance away.

The Shenbao newspaper sold the best today because its content was truly excellent.

It has everything that other newspapers have; it also has things that other newspapers don't have.

Citizens and readers had varying reactions to the newspaper, but they were deeply moved by the full-page article "The Life of Oxen and Horses: Interviews with Fifty Rickshaw Pullers" and the vernacular poems published in "Free Talk".

A teacher, holding a newspaper, sighed:

"Although I often ride in rickshaws, I know very little about the lives of rickshaw drivers. Only after reading this article do I realize that rickshaw drivers live such a miserable life."

The young woman carrying a shopping basket chimed in:

"I'm from Yancheng, I didn't expect to see so many fellow townsmen on the street..."

The details and the numbers were so ruthless, as if they were placing corpses before them. This social survey alone formed a series of tragic images in their minds.

Running around all year round, corpses strewn everywhere on the streets, prostitutes barely surviving in shantytowns...

This editorial, which uses investigation as its weapon, has a truly powerful impact. Those epic novels are completely lacking in the shock of bloody facts!

For the first time, many citizens realized the profound suffering upon which their daily convenience was built. Yet, they had become accustomed to this suffering.

However, this investigation, this writing style, this intensity... why does it seem so familiar?

After reading it, the bank clerk, carrying a briefcase, glanced at the rickshaw driver on the roadside and felt somewhat ashamed.

"I tossed the coin aside and didn't look back... I was so awful..."

Students on their way to school held up newspapers and engaged in heated discussions with their classmates.

"The Shen Bao truly lives up to its reputation as a major newspaper; its sense of responsibility is exceptional. And this 'Mingjing' editor—I admire him so much; he's a true hero! I must become like him someday!"

Those words were like a bundle of explosives, igniting the seemingly peaceful lives of ordinary citizens.

Those who read the Shen Bao newspaper not only asked themselves, "Are rickshaw drivers really just a vulgar part of the urban landscape?", but also felt a deep connection to the phrases "bad luck," "the tram is coming," and "conclusion."

Quietly, there were more people thanking the rickshaw riders on the street.

As discussions unfold, arguments are inevitable.

At the ubiquitous tea stalls, an elderly gentleman in a long gown slammed a copy of the *Shen Bao* newspaper onto the table and said to his companion:

"The entire piece is written in plain language, vulgar and crude! Does this even deserve to be called an article?"

Just as his companion was about to answer, the young man at the next table, holding a newspaper, laughed:

"What he wrote wasn't poetry or prose; it was the life story of a rickshaw driver, written in classical Chinese. Could those rickshaw drivers even understand it?"

The old man choked, his face turning bright red.

"What do you know? National affairs cannot be resolved with such inflammatory words!"

The young man, engrossed in the argument, continued to counter:

"This article says that to judge whether a government is good or bad, don't look at its name or its name, but at how the people under its rule are doing. In your opinion, isn't the plight of rickshaw drivers a matter of national importance?"

The old man, with his neck stiff, replied:

"Of course not, that's their fate."

The young man shook his head and took a sip of the iced tea:

"Doesn't that mean that in the old man's eyes, the coachman isn't even considered a commoner, but rather a beast of burden... In my opinion, the old man and the street patrolmen are probably only different in appearance."

Lore!

The old man was furious. He turned around, pointed at the young man's nose, and curses immediately came out.

A larger crowd gathered, and after figuring out why they were arguing, different opinions emerged.

"This report is indeed one-sided, and it is suspected of vilifying the city and inciting hatred among the lower classes."

"Indeed, I think it's a bit too extreme. What is Shi Jiaxiu thinking?"

"Who knows..."

The phrase, "Let those on the bus know that the person running ahead, bending over, also has a life," deeply stung the sense of superiority in some people.

"Old Wang! Brother Jianzhong! Don't get involved!"

A middle-aged man with an extraordinary demeanor tried to stop his companion from arguing, but failed.

The man known as "Old Wang" squeezed to the center of the crowd, clutching a copy of the *Shenbao* newspaper, and raised it, his gaze sweeping across everyone's faces:

"This article is an indictment; I don't care how much you argue."

The crowd quieted down.

"You're all arguing here about whether something is extreme or not, about whether it's inciting or not, but have you ever considered that those pulling the carts don't even have the energy to argue?"

Old Wang questioned, "A rickshaw puller who has been pulling a rickshaw for five years is already old and frail. Unable to find other work, he can only wait to die at home. Five years, from now until 1920, is the last bit of time a rickshaw puller has left. Do you think that's a long time?"

No one answered.

Old Wang waved the newspaper in his hand and asked again:

"This article has stated all of this, but you dare not admit it, so you call it 'extremist' and 'inciteful'—that's just your own guilty conscience!"

Some people looked unwell.

Old Wang didn't say anything more. He rolled up the newspaper, shouted to his companion, and then turned and left.

"who is he?"

"have no idea."

"Let's go, let's go."

The crowd dispersed, and the argument ceased.

The young man who started the argument lit a cigarette, smoked half of it, and said to his friend next to him:

"Brother Yun, the Mingjing newspaper in Shenbao is very similar to the Fengsheng newspaper in Qiwenbao; their styles are almost identical."

The person next to him smiled and nodded, saying:

"Maybe it's just one person? Where in this world are there so many heroes?"

......

At noon, the wind was so strong that people couldn't open their eyes.

Everything was making a rattling sound; the rickshaw canopy trembled in the wind, and the bells jingled noisily.

In the narrow alleys of the shantytowns along the Huangpu River, seven or eight rickshaw drivers who had just finished work sat together, holding worn-out enamel bowls filled mostly with brown rice porridge and tofu, with a few occasionally having dried salted fish in their bowls.

This is their daily meal when they go to work. It's a lie to say that they have alcohol and meat at every meal!

A young rickshaw driver wearing glasses squatted in the middle, holding a copy of the "Shenbao" newspaper, and carefully read it to everyone in the northern Jiangsu dialect.

His glasses had both arms broken off, tied behind his head with a rope, and the lenses were covered in spiderweb-like cracks, as murky as the shantytown itself.

He speaks very slowly, and sometimes he pauses to explain.

When the text read out "professional lifespan is only five and a half years," a square-faced rickshaw driver cursed:

"Damn it! It's really true. This is my fourth year pulling a rickshaw, and my legs aren't what they used to be. Looks like I can just wait to die!"

No one laughed, because the remark wasn't funny.

If you can't pull the cart, you can only wait to die.

When the passage about Tang Hengzi was read, the crowd sighed and groaned, losing their appetite altogether.

"I know Tang Hengzi, and his wife is now...sigh, it's pathetic..."

The driver who said this also turned his head to look at his dilapidated shack, where his wife and children were eating.

The bespectacled rickshaw driver continued reading, and when he reached the section about "pitiful and pathetic," one of the drivers put down his bowl, wiped his mouth, frowned, and said:

"The way he wrote about our bad habits was just too...too awful."

The person next to him joked:

"It may sound awful, but what they wrote isn't a lie. Didn't you lose five cents betting yesterday?"

The driver blushed and argued:

"Isn't it because I'm suffering? After pulling a cart all day, my legs feel like lead. How can I survive without finding some enjoyment?"

"That's why Mingjing says it's a vicious cycle."

The bespectacled driver adjusted his lenses: "You suffer, you gamble; you gamble, you become poorer; poorer, more suffering... This isn't your fault, it's the fault of this world. But if you don't strive for success, no one can help you even if they wanted to."

The driver had no reply, picked up the bowl and drank the porridge clean, showing no intention of leaving.

The tattered straw mats in the shantytown swayed in the air, as if they might fall apart at any moment.

When the driver read the part about "bad luck," the bespectacled driver suddenly stopped talking, and the crowd fell into a deathly silence, a silent tremor running through their hearts.

This reporter has an amazing grasp of the driver's mindset!

A thin rickshaw driver stood up and looked at the tall buildings in the distance. Sunlight was reflecting off the glass windows, making it seem like a completely different world from the shantytowns around him.

He slowly delivered some bad news:

"Car rental fees are going up again."

Everyone stood up at once.

The thin rickshaw driver turned his head and looked at his fellow drivers:

"I got information from the patrol officers that the Public Works Department plans to reduce the number of rickshaws, and the rickshaw dealers want to take this opportunity to raise their fares."

"How much will it increase?"

"I don't know, but it's at least a dime."

"Damn! Why are we even hauling this cheap trinket? We might as well risk our lives at the hands of the car dealer!"

The rickshaw pullers were filled with righteous indignation.

The bespectacled driver said angrily:

"If prices rise again, what will we eat?"

"They're worse than cattle and horses, they just eat shit."

Someone sneered, expressing their dissatisfaction.

Many people were not in the mood to laugh and sat down feeling dejected.

The bespectacled rickshaw driver continued reading the newspaper, but stopped aloud. After a while, he suddenly mimicked the tone of the newspaper and asked:

"When will the cattle and horses in the streets be able to become human again?"

No one can answer this question, but everyone is thinking about it.

Why is it that the people living in the mansions across the street can enjoy fine food and drink every day, while we laborers have to live such a miserable life?

A burly middle-aged rickshaw driver lit a cigarette and suddenly said:

"The journalist who wrote this article said something to me during the interview."

"What?" the drivers asked eagerly.

The middle-aged rickshaw driver didn't keep us in suspense and answered:

He said, "Sooner or later, this day would come."

"Sooner or later, but how long is 'sooner or later'?"

"I asked him too, and he said he didn't know, but he also said that someone would definitely answer that question."

"..."

The drivers were starting to despair.

They used to hope someone would write about them, and now that someone has actually written about them, they're not satisfied and hope things will change.

Only the bespectacled driver cared about other things:

"What was that reporter like?"

The middle-aged driver thought for a moment and said:

"He's a young man."

How young?

"Younger than you, unbelievably young, squatting there like someone's child, very handsome."

These words sparked a lively discussion among the coachmen.

After all, in their minds, journalists who can conduct such investigations should be tall, wearing trench coats, glasses, and carrying notebooks, like detectives from the police station—the kind of people who are not ordinary.

Who would have thought that such young children would be speaking up for them?

The middle-aged driver also became more enthusiastic, perhaps to show off, or perhaps simply to share. Recalling the events of the past few days, he spoke again:

"That kid asked me a lot of questions... He asked me where I came from, why I came to pull a rickshaw, how many meals I eat a day, where I live, whether I have a wife and children, what I would do if I got sick, and whether I had enough money. When I left, he even treated me to a bowl of noodles with minced meat."

"I told him I was unlucky, and he said it wasn't fate, it was because of people like Yuan Shikai that we were treated like beasts of burden."

"After he said 'it will happen sooner or later,' he asked me if I wanted to be a beast of burden for the rest of my life. I said of course not, and guess what he said?"

The driver with glasses spoke first:

"What did you say?!"

The middle-aged coachman laughed:

"He said...it has to start with you yourselves shouting to those exploiters, 'We don't want to be beasts of burden, we want to be human beings...'"

......

Meanwhile, in the French Concession, in Girully.

The trams on Gongguan Road clanged past.

Zhang Jiluan sat by the window on the second floor of the apartment, holding a copy of the "Shenbao" newspaper in her hand. A cup of cold tea sat on the windowsill, and the ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts.

He is 27 years old this year, with a thin face and high cheekbones, but he looks very energetic, and his resume is even more frightening.

He was stuttering and physically weak as a child, but had outstanding writing skills. After his father passed away in the 27th year of the Guangxu Emperor's reign, he returned to Yulin with his mother and studied under Liu Guyu, a great Confucian scholar of the Guan School, where he honed his writing skills.

In 1906, he passed the imperial examination for government-funded study abroad in Japan and entered Tokyo First Higher School. During this time, he served as the chief editor of the magazine *Xia Sheng* and joined the Shaanxi branch of the Tongmenghui (Revolutionary Alliance). In 1905, he returned to China and became a reporter for the *Minli Bao* newspaper in Shanghai. On the night of the founding of the Republic of China, he sent a special news dispatch to the *Minli Bao*, becoming the first special news dispatch in the history of Chinese journalism. In 1912, through recommendation, he served as the secretary to the Provisional President and participated in drafting important documents such as the *Provisional President's Inaugural Declaration*.

On the eve of the disaster in 1913 (the second year of the Republic of China), he was arrested for exposing the "draft agreement" of Yuan Shikai's loan from the Five Nations Banking Consortium through the Beiping Minli Daily. He was imprisoned in the Military and Political Law Enforcement Bureau for more than 100 days before being rescued. He was a journalist who had actually walked out of a "death row prison"! His "100 Days in Prison" records this event in detail, and one of his life mottos is: "A journalist who has never been to prison is not a good journalist." His experience is more than just remarkable.

After his release from prison, he returned to Shanghai and, at the invitation of Hu Zhengzhi, became the editor-in-chief of the international edition of the Da Gongzhi Daily. He also served as a professor at China Public School, teaching Japanese and diplomatic history.

Unfortunately, the Da Gongzhi Daily ceased operations in June of this year, and he was subsequently laid off.

The reason is quite simple—

Originally the official newspaper of the Federation and the Unity Party, the newspaper gradually accepted funding from Yuan Shikai after its founders, including Zhang Taiyan, withdrew, transforming into a pro-Yuan Shikai publication and drawing criticism for losing its media independence. Later this year, it published articles supporting the imperial system, causing its reputation to plummet and its circulation to drop sharply, ultimately forcing it to close down.

Hu Zhengzhi, who invited him to serve as the editor-in-chief of the international edition, also went to serve as the secretary-general to Yuan Xiangcheng's confidants.

However, the fact that the Da Gongzhi Daily was the mouthpiece of Yuan Shikai's party does not mean that he was also one.

As a staunch anti-Yuan Shikai figure, he was preparing the "Minxin Daily" with his friends Zeng Tongyi and Kang Xinru, planning an anti-imperial campaign, but it would take some time before it was published.

Before that, it is necessary to pay attention to the developments in the press.

He never expected that Shi Liangcai's "Shenbao" would become so radical.

In particular, this piece, "The Life of Cattle and Horses," far surpassed his usual level and was very much to his liking.

"Understanding Oneness, Finding Oneness!"

Zhang Jiluan shouted a call to action.

Zeng Tongyi and Kang Xinru came out from the inner room.

The former was two years older than Zhang Jiluan, with a round face and wearing black-rimmed glasses; the latter was younger, two years younger than Zhang Jiluan, tall and thin, with a small mustache.

"Have you finished watching?" Kang Xinru asked.

Zhang Jiluan nodded, leaned back in her chair, clasped her hands over her stomach, and looked out the window:

"This article transcends mere pity for the hardships of the people's lives, and does not remain at the perspective of the literati who 'plead for the people.' Instead, it allows the 'people' to speak for themselves and systematically restores the suffering to the social system. Therefore, I believe this article is the pinnacle of humanism in Chinese journalism to date."

Zeng Tong was taken aback for a moment:

"Such high praise? This isn't like you at all!"

"Not high at all."

Zhang Jiluan took a sip of tea and sat up straight: "The reporter who wrote this article didn't write it from his office, nor did he get it from hearsay. He squatted by the roadside, in the shantytowns, and next to the rickshaw drivers, asking them one by one. From a professional point of view, this is called field research, which is indispensable for a reporter. It also proves that his professional competence is quite high."

"In terms of professional philosophy, I believe that journalists should put the greater good before personal interests. To write such articles that expose the darkness requires not only writing skills, but also this kind of firm journalistic integrity, which is worthy of praise."

He has always advocated "literati discussing politics," and his ideals are much higher than those of ordinary people. Now that he has seen this article, it is more than just a resonance.

Kang Xinru sat down and said:

"I did some research, and some people suspect that this reporter called 'Mingjing' is the same person as 'Fengsheng' from 'Qiwenbao'. In other words, he is also the one behind 'Jingzhong' and 'Nahan'."

"It might be the same person, or it might not be."

Zhang Jiluan waved his hand dismissively: "That's not important. What's important is the article itself."

He turned to the section titled "People's Livelihood is a Mirror of Politics," pointed to those lines with his finger, and read them aloud. After finishing, he looked at his two friends:

"Do you know what's the most powerful part of this passage?"

Zeng Tongyi thought for a moment and replied:

"It brings the debate between co-governance and monarchy back to the most fundamental question: whether the people are living well. I remember a Western thinker named Marx advocated that people's livelihood is the foundation of politics. This journalist, who can both travel and write, must have read a lot of Western classics!"

Zhang Jiluan clapped his hands loudly to express his praise:

"Yang Chengzan was talking about saving the country through constitutional monarchy, Liang Yinbing was talking about promoting constitutional government, and the Preparatory Committee for the Establishment of Peace was discussing the form of government. But this reporter only focused on one key issue: whether the people were living well. These are the fundamental issues, and the issues that the likes of the Six Gentlemen could not face directly."

"If people's livelihoods cannot be improved, then no regime can stand firm... When we start the newspaper in the future, we will ask those drummers the same question!"

They both agreed.

A rickshaw sped by, its bell ringing in the wind.

Zhang Jiluan got up and stretched:

"You guys are busy, I need to go see Shi Jiaxiu."

"Why do you want to see him?"

"Ask him where he dug up such a treasure, and while you're at it, try to befriend this 'Mingjing' (a pseudonym). He must be a very interesting person."

He walked to the door, stopped, and turned back: "What kind of person do you think could write this kind of article?"

Zeng Tong smiled:

"In my opinion, he must be an old gentleman. He has a long beard, speaks slowly, and has a very sharp eye when he looks at people."

Kang Xinru shook her head:

"Not necessarily. The old gentleman can't travel around like that. He's probably... older than us, well-read, and has seen a lot. He's got a lot on his mind."

Zhang Jiluan didn't say anything, but pushed open the door and went out.

The door made a "click" sound when it closed.

"Xinru, do you think Ji Luan can find him?"

"Shi Jiaxiu wants to hide someone, but Ji Luan might not be able to find him. But you know Ji Luan; he'll do whatever it takes, even risk his life."